ought to be ready to do something for the parish. I think I have a right to expect it, and I need it much. I am not begging now, though, and I know, sir, you have done all you can."

"Yes, I have," said Mr. North, shortly. The Rector was a simple, kindly, straightforward man, but he was not sensitive, nor keenly alive to other people's sensibilities. Mr. North was poor, and he had done all he could, and all Mr. Warde expected of him. Why should he hesitate to say so? and why should it not be spoken of openly? But the acknowledgment was bitter to the old man. He could do nothing more, and he knew it well enough: but why should he be told so plainly that it was to young Cleasby and not to him that the Rector looked for support? What right had he to speak to him at all upon such a subject?

So Mr.

North thought; but the thought did not make him less courteous and hospitable in his manner, for Mr. Warde was his guest, and was to be treated with all deference. Nevertheless it rankled; and there was another reason which put a restraint upon their friendly intercourse, and deprived it of the cordiality which would have been most congenial to the Rector. The White House belonged to Mr. Warde, and had originally been intended for a parsonage, but Mr. Warde was unmarried, and lived in tiny apartments over the baker's, so he had let the house to the Norths, partly because he was glad to get rid of it with its long passages and big fireplaces, which were not adapted for bachelor comfort, and partly because it was a time when Mr. North was in trouble, and glad to find a house for which he was not required to pay down money at once; so they stood in relation of tenant and landlord, a relation which was galling to Mr. North's feelings, and which threw a deeper shade of formality over his manner to the clergyman, though, in his way, he both liked and respected him.

"Are you going to call at the Park?" asked Mr. Warde, in his direct matterof-fact way, with no suspicion of the

conflict which he was raising up in his host's mind between his offended dignity and his courtesy.

And then both the women looked and waited for the answer; but while Christina's eyes were opened wide and fixed upon her grandfather, Mrs. North's were cast down and fixed upon the table-cloth.

66

'Why should I call?" said Mr. North. "No, I do not intend calling. Quiet, absolute quiet, is what suits me best in my old age; and I am not prepared to make new acquaintances. I am not good company for the rising generation."

Mr. Warde was still a young man in Mr. North's eyes, though he was thirtyfive, or perhaps a little older; and though he knew that his host spoke with contempt of the rising generation when he said that he was not good company for them, he never thought of taking exception at anything Mr. North might say; indeed, he was a man that it was difficult for any one to offend.

"I cannot help thinking it would be better for you if you saw more of your neighbours," he said, as usual giving free expression to his thoughts; and although perhaps his advice was uncalled for in addressing a man so much his senior, it was not given with any arrogance or priestly superiority, but rather as the frank opinion of one unused to keep his sentiments to himself; nevertheless Mr. North, as might have been expected, was not pleased with the interference.

"Of that I must be the best judge," he said: and then he looked at his daughter-in-law in a way to intimate that it was time for her to leave the

would be better for him and for you all. He should not shut himself up as he does."

"It suits him," said Christina; and though she sighed at the incomprehensibleness of such a taste, she added, "I suppose he has a right to do as he pleases;" for Christina allowed no one but herself to blame her grandfather.

"Certainly not; we have all our duties to ourselves and to each other," said the clergyman: and this time there was something a little clerical in his tone which made Christina feel rebellious, and prompted her to answer, that "as to everyone having duties, it might be so, but she had never found hers out."

"Then you have never tried," said Mr. Warde and soon after he went away to his night school.

And although Christina did not care for his opinion, she knew that he spoke sincerely. "He does not approve of me," she said to herself; "and though it does not matter, I dare say he is right, after all!"

CHAPTER III.

FOR Some days it seemed as if Mrs. North was quite right when she said that the Cleasbys' return could make no difference to them: the days passed as they had passed before, and the only witnesses to their existence were the lights which shone from their windows through the Park trees. Christina could not have told why every night she looked out at them before going to bed, and every night they seemed a little farther off; sometimes she thought she would cease to see them at all, and yet she looked, and wondered, and waited.

One day the gates were opened, and some one drove past in a dogcart, but she did not see who it was, and she even began to think that she did not care to know. The heath was only divided from the trees of the Park by the winding stony road; but it was a barrier which could not be passed by

her-so Christina thought; and after all it did not so much matter.

One afternoon she was sitting with her grandfather in the study, writing from his dictation a criticism upon a book he had been reading. "It is well to note down one's thoughts," he had said in his didactic way, and Christina had taken out pen and paper with a mental wonder that he should care to preserve what no one would ever care to know. Indeed, she wondered how he should find it worth while to think about such things at all; but of course this she did not say.

It was growing dusk, and the one candle gave but a feeble light; so she was kneeling by the table to catch the firelight upon her page; but the old man was long in collecting his thoughts, and it was only at intervals that he spoke, and Christina's eyes had wandered out into the darkness outside the window, and her thoughts were weaving themselves into a vague dream. Then suddenly, when all seemed most peaceful and ordinary; when the doors had, as it were, been shut upon the outer world; when even Bernard was not to be expected; when her mother was, as usual, working in the little parlour at the other side of the passage, and Janet was in the kitchen, and she and her grandfather were alone, he with pain and effort shaping his thoughts into words, she letting hers wander into a dreamland which had nothing definite about it,at this moment, of all others, when the world seemed farthest off, the calm was broken by a citizen of that world.

He came as if his visit were the most commonplace thing in life, asked Janet if her master were in, with easy indifference, and followed her so closely along the passage that she had no opportunity to give warning of his advent, but had barely time to open the door and announce "Captain Cleasby," before he stood within the room.

He did not feel embarrassed, nor as if his visit had anything of special import in it; he did not feel that he was dining at Mr. North's table every night,

but, on the contrary, looked on that table as most peculiarly his own; and he had come to see Mr. North as a near neighbour, and an old acquaintance of his father's, without any thought of the circumstances which might make his visit a painful one; but yet he did not advance for a moment, not because he felt doubtful or shy, but because in the uncertain light he could not see clearly in whose presence he stood.

There was a pause, and Christina rose up hastily from her knees, suddenly awakened from her dreams and flushed at the unexpectedness of the entrance, and drew back a little and looked curiously at the stranger. Then Mr. North made an effort to rise, and yet he did not, and he knew that the young man had seen the effort when he came forward and held out his hand.

"Pray don't disturb yourself," he said, as he advanced into the light, and shook hands with Mr. North, and then for the first time saw Christina and bowed to her. "I hope I am not interrupting anything; I must apologize for calling so late, but I have been out all day. I hope I am not interrupting you?"

Christina was sitting quite in the shadow. Even the outline of her figure was undefined; but a little soft low laugh came out of the darkness as Captain Cleasby ended his apology, and a voice which seemed as if speaking to itself, "I think we can forgive the interruption."

"It is of no consequence," said Mr. North, and his tone was very stately; "my time is quite at your service."

Perhaps the magnificence of the speech was thrown away upon Captain Cleasby, who was not thinking of Geoffrey North as the man to whom the Park had belonged, but rather of his father's friend, who, poor old fellow, was sadly aged and altered. He had too much tact to betray this, or show any sense of the change. He drew forward a chair and sat down before the fire, and began to talk with a lazy ease which was new to Christina.

"I cannot expect you to remember

me, sir," he said; "I was quite a boy: but I remember you well, and everything about the place. We have been moving about ever since."

"You have been on the Continent, I understand," said Mr. North, stiffly.

"Yes, at one place or another. We are a migratory people, but at last we have come home."

He did not say it as if he were glad to be once more at the Park; and though he called it "home," there was ever so slight a touch of contempt in his voice.

It seemed as if Mr. North gathered up his breath to speak, and yet the remark he made was a difficult one for a stranger to answer.

"I was surprised and grieved to hear of Cleasby's death," he said.

It was only a month since it had happened, and all the agitations and incidents of the time were fresh in the young man's memory. After all, long habit and daily intercourse had created

an

affection which, though it had nothing in it of elevated sentiment or respect, had yet been that of a son for a father; and Mr. North's observation brought a shadow and a change over his face.

"Thank you," he said briefly. Then there was a silence, and again it was apparent to Christina that her grandfather made an effort to break it.

"Are you going to become a resident at the Park?" he said.

"I hardly know myself-we are very uncertain; but I dare say we shall be here for some time to come. It is only myself and my sister."

"You prefer the Continent?"

"Well, we know very little of English life as yet; of course it is rather strange to us at first, but I dare say we shall

settle down in time."

He thought for a moment whether he should add anything more cordial, as would have seemed natural in speaking to his nearest neighbour and to his father's old friend; whether he should say anything of future intercourse, or ask whether he had any belonging who would care for his fishing or shooting; but the chilling dignity of Mr. North's

manner had repelled him, and soon after he took his leave. Christina had been in the background and dim shadow in the dusky twilight, and he had hardly noticed her, but he had been in the circle of firelight, and she had seen him clearly.

Was it an omen of the future?

Well, after all he had crossed the road; the barrier which she thought impassable had been passed, but all the same she was further off than ever, and she felt it. There was no bond of union, his life had been so different from theirs, and what could they say to him? It was not so strange that Mr. North should find a difficulty in opening and sustaining a conversation, and Christina no longer wondered at his embarrassment, nor at his decision that the Cleasbys should not come to his house. It was quite true that they had nothing to do with them, that they had nothing in common with prosperity, riches, and people of the world; their way of thinking, their talk, their very manner was different and Christina sighed a little as she leant back in her chair.

Her grandfather had forgotten his book, and he too leant back in his chair, lost in thought.

"Oh, Christina!" said her mother, "what are you doing there? And did Captain Cleasby find you like this, with only one candle, and the room all in disorder, and you in that old blue gown? Oh, dear! why did he come, and no one expecting him?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Christina; "but as to the room and my gown, I don't suppose that he even saw them" and she laughed a little at the idea. It had never occurred to her to consider what Captain Cleasby would have thought of them or their surroundings, and perhaps she was too proud to have given a thought to her gown; for she, like her grandfather, was proud in her way.

"You may laugh, Christina; I dare say it is very amusing to you," said the mother, in the aggrieved tone which had become habitual to her, "but I don't see anything to laugh at for my part. You cannot remember, of course, and so you

It was quite true that she did not, as her mother said, "feel the difference; she had been used to isolation and poverty nearly all her life, and she had no recollection of brighter days; but yet the lonely dreariness of the life they were leading was far more oppressive to her than to Mrs. North, who at least had nothing more to expect.

She leant up against the window and drew a long breath as if she could rid herself in that physical way of the depression which was creeping over her, and turned her back upon her grandfather, who still sat meditating in his chair, and upon her mother, who had taken up her work and was bending over it.

But, after all, Christina was young and strong and full of life; and though at times she might review her fate and let despondency conquer her, very often she forgot it altogether in the spring and sunshine, and the natural freshness of youth. Every day the west wind blew more softly, every day the tints grew deeper over the Park trees, and April rains had watered the brown heath and made the scanty herbage green, and the birds began to sing and the gummy chestnut buds to glisten, and the winter was over; and though Christina might be lonely, and at times sad and rebellious, she had not yet shut her heart to the influences of the opening year. Her mood softened, and she was gracious to Bernard, and promised to go and see his mother.

It was no penance to her; there was perhaps no one for whom she had so great a respect as her aunt, but she did not go often to see her. She hardly knew herself why she did not seek her more. It was not that she was afraid, for

she was afraid of no one, and it was not for want of time or opportunity; perhaps it was because she knew Mrs. Oswestry did not always approve of her. She was not a woman who expressed an unfavourable opinion readily, neither was she critical; but she was essentially just, impartial, and firm; and for some reason or other, she did not, as people say, get on with Christina, who, to be sure, was destitute of many valuable qualities. The expression of Mrs. Oswestry's face was kindly and strong and serene; a face that could not deceive, and could at times soften into tenderness, but withal giving evidence of a calm, well-regulated mind and a ruling spirit. This was perhaps the reason that Christina set out to see her with no vivid anticipation of pleasure, but rather with the sense that she was discharging a duty.

Yet she felt courageous also, and the morning air had given her a spirit of enterprise, and she had said to Bernard the evening before, "I shall tell Aunt Margaret that some day I am coming to live at the Homestead ;" and she thought that she would do it, and pictured to herself the surprise which she was going to awaken as she walked across the heath to her aunt's house.

"Am I come too early, Aunt Margaret?" she said, as she pushed open the door and found Mrs. Oswestry giving out the linen from the cupboard in the

passage.

Peace brooded over the house; peace was within, and peace without,—in the sunny garden outside, and in the pretty drawing-room. There was an atmosphere of quiet about the roses, and the bees, and the poultry in the yard. It was sheltered from the winds by the hill which rose behind it, and all was tranquil within; the first crocuses bloomed under the garden wall, or the last roses shed their leaves upon the gravel-walks.

Mrs. Oswestry was standing, a tall figure in her long black dress, among the piles of white linen, with the sweet spring air blowing in upon her from an open window, and she turned

her full, steady eyes upon Christina as she came in, and held out her hands and kissed her with a smile of welcome.

"You are welcome, my dear," she said, with a touch of her father's ceremony and then she led the way into the little drawing-room, with its pretty bay window full of flowers, the scent of them stirred by every soft gust through the window; and she sat down in her own chair and took up her work, and Christina sat down also, but did not very well know what to

say.

"Had you anything particular to say to me?" said Mrs. Oswestry. She looked at Christina, who was twisting her hat about in her hands, though it was not usual with her to be at a loss for words: and then Christina felt how impossible it was for her to answer such an appeal by any confidence. It was an opening, perhaps, but an opening of which it was quite impossible to take advantage. It would be much better to introduce the subject casually; so she put it away for the present.

"No, no, Aunt Margaret," she said, "only I thought that I would come. Bernard said I could come."

"You do not come so very often, but you are always welcome," said Mrs. Oswestry and she smiled, for she was not a woman to reproach anyone for neglecting her. "It is not very lively here, and there is nothing to amuse you.'

"I don't think of amusement," said Christina; "you would not imagine I wanted it, if you knew me better. I always like this house, it is so bright. I think you get all the sunshine up here, Aunt Margaret."

"Do we?" said Mrs. Oswestry; "yes, I think that you are right as to the sunshine, but I hope that we do not quite monopolize it."

Christina did not answer, but she leant her chin upon her hand, and looked out through the framework of creepers which clustered round the window.

"Christina," said her aunt, after a little pause, "I sometimes think that